As I look back, it might be the act of walking that has engraved an indelible mark upon my memory and my heart. I was breathing hard, climbing an uphill path, my heart pumping life to my weary legs. I remember trying to catch up with Mother’s pace.
I don’t remember what I was thinking then. From this earliest memory of childhood, I cannot remember mother’s words, only my hand in her hand as we tread the dusty path from our house to the brown, unpainted shack with a rusty roof, but its windows had curtains. If you ask me how I felt, though, I can tell you. I felt loved. I felt secure.
My earliest memory is cradled on a sunny day. I love that I still seem to feel the warmth of her hand and the sun on my skin. And the cool breeze in that mountain region, yeah — bliss. I thank God for being entrusted with this memory.
revised, taken from another blog of mine https://courtofreverie.wordpress.com/2020/03/06/first-memory/
Comments
Post a Comment